


human childcare for the occult (and ethereal)

by suzukiblu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Babysitting, Child Neglect, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Gardener!Aziraphale - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Nanny!Crowley - Freeform, The Dowlings' A+ Parenting, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 00:58:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: The Dowlings miraculously need a nanny and a gardener at the same time, and Aziraphale suggests they flip for it. Crowley takes one moment to picture Aziraphale nannyinganyoneand calls dibs. It’s not that Aziraphale’sterriblewith humans, he’s just, well. Terrible with humans. Truly, truly terrible.He doesn’t want to deal with Aziraphale getting metaphorically guillotined or kicking up security’s paranoia, basically. A gardener can be a little odd, and no one will notice or care. Except Warlock, perhaps, as the only other person with any real reason to spend much time out on the lawn, but Warlock’s the one theywantnoticing so that’ll be fine, Crowley’s sure.Even if itdoesmake him cringe a little, leaving Aziraphale in charge of the plants.





	human childcare for the occult (and ethereal)

**Author's Note:**

> An anon on Tumblr wanted something about the time Crowley and Aziraphale spent _six damn years_ being the worst influences ever on Warlock and I wanted that also, and someone else wanted wedding fic and I ALSO wanted THAT also. Also-also, I had to take it all seriously, because I am That Person.

The Dowlings miraculously need a nanny and a gardener at the same time, and Aziraphale suggests they flip for it. Crowley takes one moment to picture Aziraphale nannying _anyone_ and calls dibs. It’s not that Aziraphale’s _terrible_ with humans, he’s just, well. Terrible with humans. Truly, truly terrible. 

He doesn’t want to deal with Aziraphale getting metaphorically guillotined or kicking up security’s paranoia, basically. A gardener can be a little odd, and no one will notice or care. Except Warlock, perhaps, as the only other person with any real reason to spend much time out on the lawn, but Warlock’s the one they _want_ noticing so that’ll be fine, Crowley’s sure. 

Even if it _does_ make him cringe a little, leaving Aziraphale in charge of the plants. 

Well, miracles can fix what incompetence can’t, he supposes. And nevermind just whose miracles those might happen to be. 

He is immediately proven right about calling dibs on the nanny when he goes outside and sees Aziraphale’s gardener disguise for the first time. 

“What have you _done_ to yourself?” he asks. 

“Warlock should learn that good isn’t always beautiful and evil may disguise itself as comely,” Aziraphale says. 

“I’m _comely_ , am I?” Crowley asks. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. Crowley considers addressing that response in a bit more detail, but no, he’d like to remain fully functional today. 

“It’s just an awful lot of effort for a disguise,” he says. 

“. . . did you even bother changing sex or did you just put on a skirt?” Aziraphale asks, tilting his head. 

“Just put on a skirt,” Crowley says with a shrug. Humans can’t tell the difference, in his experience. 

“Doesn’t seem like quite _enough_ effort, to me,” Aziraphale says. 

“Evil _is_ generally the easy route,” Crowley says reasonably, giving his skirt a little swish. “It’s one of our better tricks, I always thought.” 

“As you like it, my dear,” Aziraphale says wryly, and they get on with the business of molding young Warlock into the most morally neutral human possible. Crowley reads him dreadful stories and sings him murderous lullabies and Aziraphale tells him all about the beauty of the world and the inherent value of other people and Crowley finds even more murderous lullabies. Never let it be said he’s slacking on his half of the Arrangement. 

Though the Arrangement does take a bit of a beating, juggling all their usual sins and blessings along with a very observant child. When they’re not around, Warlock _notices_ , which Crowley considers the best evidence of his demonic heritage they’ve had so far. He frequently has to distract Warlock from playing outside on days when “Brother Francis” is off performing miracles in the name of keeping their jobs, and Aziraphale has to keep him outside on days when Crowley’s doing the same. In the name of keeping _these_ jobs, they need to be very careful not to be spotted as going missing at the wrong time. Fortunately, the Dowlings are rarely around. Unfortunately, some temptations are time-sensitive. 

A determined five year-old is a wily opponent, for the record.

“But _why_ can’t I go play outside?” Warlock whines from the floor, surrounded by toys and still somehow bored to spitefulness. 

“It’s raining,” Crowley lies from the armchair. 

“No it’s not!” 

Crowley snaps his fingers. Hail crashes against the living room window. He raises an eyebrow at Warlock, who scowls. 

“I wanna play outside!” he says. 

“You’d catch your death of cold, and your infernal father would have my giblets,” Crowley says. Though it _would_ solve their main problem, he supposes. Or buy them a bit of time, at least. 

Come to think of it, he’s not actually sure Warlock _can_ die, human-ish body or no. He really should’ve asked about that. 

“I don’t care!” Warlock yells. 

“My giblets would,” Crowley says. Warlock throws a toy car at him and throws a fit, and they spend a miserable afternoon indoors. Crowley spends it waiting to be agonizingly discorporated and figuring Hell will be delighted to hear it, but tantrums aside apparently Warlock isn’t angry enough for any horrible occult powers to come out. Probably for the best; Crowley might’ve lost the nanny job waiting for a new body, and then he’d have had to come up with a new in. 

He’s also watered the lawn, because _someone_ has to. 

“Next time it’s _my_ turn to go cursing and blessing,” he informs Aziraphale when the other returns, the both of them standing on the back terrace to avoid any unfortunate eavesdropping. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, pursing his lips. “Was he that difficult?” 

“Of course he was, he’s the bloody Antichrist!” Crowley says. “You’re slacking, angel, he’s growing up a spoiled brat.” 

“I rather think we can blame his parents’ influence for that more than yours, actually,” Aziraphale says with a sigh. “They’re never around, and when they are it’s only to _give_ him things.” 

“Yes, and?” Crowley squints at him in bemusement. 

“And Warlock is _upset_ about that,” Aziraphale says. 

“He can’t be that upset, they’re both still alive,” Crowley reasons. 

“Crowley. I’ve been telling the boy slugs and _snails_ are precious life forms,” Aziraphale says dubiously. “You don’t think he might even _subconsciously_ hesitate about murdering another person?” 

“Subconsciously I think he’d burn this whole place down with us all inside,” Crowley replies frankly, jamming his hands into his pockets. His skirt had not previously had pockets, but it knew better than to disappoint him. 

“ _Really_ now—” Aziraphale starts in exasperation, and then the door opens and they both jerk their heads towards it. Aziraphale’s posture is perfect, of course, and he has to put on a slouch; Crowley has to straighten his. It’s only Warlock, though, and they both relax. Well—as much as anyone can relax in the presence of the end of the world, anyway. 

“Here now, you’re supposed to be in bed,” Crowley says. 

“I had a bad dream,” Warlock lies, badly. Crowley scowls. 

“Oh dear, what about?” Aziraphale asks, obviously _entirely_ taken in, the bloody idiot. 

“It was bad,” Warlock says. The boy isn’t the most silver-tongued liar, which Crowley hopes is proof of angelic influence and not just demonic incompetence. 

“Warlock, you know perfectly well you’re supposed to be in bed,” he says crossly, folding his arms and tapping a foot against the terrace. 

“Really, Cr—Ashtoreth, he’s had a _nightmare_ ,” Aziraphale says disapprovingly. 

“He has _not_ ,” Crowley says, because for one thing Warlock is a terrible liar and for another he’d have been able to sense any nightmare-related emotions. Warlock is low-level upset, at best. 

“Where’s Mommy?” Warlock asks. 

“Er,” Aziraphale says with a wince. 

“No idea,” Crowley replies frankly. Mrs. Dowling wandered out sometime before Warlock’s bedtime without much more than a “be back by eight!” It’s currently pushing nine. 

“Daddy?” Warlock asks, although only halfheartedly. 

“Still at the embassy,” Crowley says, because where else would the man be? 

“I want Mommy,” Warlock says, and starts to cry. The “low-level” upset gets very high-level, _very quickly_. 

“Oh! Oh dear!” Aziraphale exclaims, hands fluttering helplessly. Crowley scowls and shoves his glasses up his nose. “Now, Warlock, you know your parents would be here if—” 

“Don’t bloody _lie_ to him, angel, he’s a _child_ , not a plant,” Crowley says in exasperation, then walks over and picks up the still-weeping Warlock and sets him on his hip. “Listen, Warlock, one day you will destroy every fool who’s ever wronged you and leave their corpses for the dogs.” 

“Ashtoreth . . .” Aziraphale says in exasperation, coming up on Warlock’s other side. “Warlock, your parents have very important work to do, but they love you very much. I’m sure they’d be here if they could.” 

“They could,” Crowley says. 

_“Ashtoreth!”_ Aziraphale hisses. 

“What, you think lying to him is going to make him turn out a normal, well-balanced human?” Crowley demands. Warlock is crying stickily into his shoulder, and he jostles him a little bit in the vague hope it’ll somehow be comforting. “Obviously he can tell they wouldn’t be. They’d _be here_ , otherwise!” 

“Well, I mean, all things considered . . .” Aziraphale trails off. 

“Oh don’t give me that, it’s not as if they _know_ ,” Crowley says in disgust. Even if the Dowlings _could_ somehow sense that Warlock is technically evil incarnate, that’s hardly an excuse for neglecting the brat. 

“I! Want! My! _Mommy_!” Warlock sobs. It’s actually a little distressing. Crowley pats him on the back, sharing a vaguely panicked look with Aziraphale. Aziraphale is not helpful beyond that, being Aziraphale. 

“One day you will destroy every fool who’s ever wronged you and leave their corpses for the dogs?” Crowley attempts. Warlock just keeps weeping. 

Well, there go all of Crowley’s ideas. 

“There, there, dear, it’s alright,” Aziraphale says awkwardly, patting Warlock’s back too. He’s not the one getting child-snot all over his blazer, so Crowley shoots him a withering look on principle. Aziraphale winces. Crowley was _definitely_ right not to let him be nanny. “Now, Warlock, sometimes the greater good takes precedence over—”

“The _greater good_ , angel, are you _kidding_ me,” Crowley says. 

“Hush, you, I’m trying to make him feel better!” Aziraphale hisses, shooting him the closest thing to a death glare an angel is capable of, which is in fact pretty damned deathly. 

“You can’t _make_ a human do anything, they’ve got all that _nasty_ free will in the way,” Crowley snorts, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. 

“You know what I mean!” 

“Do _you_ know what you mean?” 

“Wh—yes, of course I do!” 

“And yet we’re still having this conversation!” 

“ _Excuse_ me—” 

“You’re both _weird_ ,” Warlock sniffles. 

“Generally, yes,” Crowley says, patting his back again. He’s crying less, which is a relief, although obviously not due to anything they’ve done. They’re not very good at this. Then again, how does one comfort the Antichrist? 

Without bloodshed, he means. Obviously. 

“Would you like a sweet, dear?” Aziraphale asks kindly, possibly miracling candy out of nowhere but possibly having just had it in his pocket all day, ugh. Crowley makes a face, either way. Warlock accepts the candy with a solemn, tear-streaked face, and Crowley fishes out a handkerchief to clean up his Dread Lord before his Dread Lord _Senior_ finds out he’s let his unholy offspring cry. He did not previously have a handkerchief, but his pockets, like his skirt, know better than to disappoint him. 

“We should’ve just kidnapped him when we had the chance,” Crowley grumbles. 

“ _Really_ , Ashtoreth,” Aziraphale says. “We aren’t kidnapping anyone. That wouldn’t be very heavenly, for one thing.” 

“I’m _just saying_ , all this would’ve been a lot easier,” Crowley says. “Technically we could kidnap him right now, it’s not like anyone else is here except security.” 

“Be that as it may,” Aziraphale says sternly. “I don’t think either of us is ready for parenthood.” 

“I didn’t say anything about _parenthood_!” Crowley hisses. 

“It was rather implied, my dear,” Aziraphale says. He pats Warlock’s back again. Warlock sniffles. They probably shouldn’t be discussing kidnapping him when he’s right here and old enough to relay the information to someone in authority, but oh well, no use closing the barn door after the horse has already trampled you, or however the saying goes. 

“You could kidnap me,” Warlock says. Whoops. 

“Only technically,” Crowley says. 

“There’s security, Warlock, you’re perfectly safe,” Aziraphale assures him. 

“Oh, _security_ ,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes. As if human security could actually do anything against any genuine threats the _Antichrist_ might face. “You’re the spawn of Hell, Warlock, no one’s doing anything to you that you don’t want them doing. And if they try to, you can massacre them.” 

“Brother Francis says I shouldn’t massacre people,” Warlock says with a sniffle, laying his head on Crowley’s tear-sticky shoulder and balling his fists in the front of his blouse. 

“Well. I mean, if someone’s trying to _kidnap_ you . . .” Aziraphale hedges. 

“Now is not the time for moral ambiguity, _Francis_!” Crowley hisses at him. 

“I was only saying!” 

“Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t come get me anyway,” Warlock says with another messy sniffle. It’s going to take several miracles to get all the child excretions off this outfit, Crowley is already sure. 

“They probably would,” he says, because the Dowlings are neglectful, yes, but not outright _sociopaths_. But also: neglectful. “Once they noticed you were gone, I mean.” 

“Ashtoreth!” Aziraphale says in exasperation. Crowley is mostly used to hearing him say the name, but it’s still funny hearing how he manages to pitch it almost exactly the same way as he usually does “Crowley”. “Warlock, your parents _do_ love you. They’re just not good parents. It’s not your fault.” 

“They don’t,” Warlock says, fresh tears welling in his eyes. Crowley shoots Aziraphale a murderous look. Aziraphale does not appear to care. “They’re never _here_.” 

“That would be the not being good parents bit, yes,” Aziraphale says. “Unfortunately sometimes even people who love us don’t love us the way we’d prefer they would.” 

“I want more candy,” Warlock says sadly. 

“Oh, let me just—” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley cuts him off quick. The brat’ll be up all _night_ at this rate. 

“It is your _bedtime_ , Warlock,” he says. Warlock sniffles. “Your parents will be back eventually, probably. Unless they die in horrible car crashes or—” 

_“Ashtoreth!”_ Aziraphale says. 

“Again, I’m not going to _lie_ to him!” Crowley says, planting a hand on his hip and glaring at Aziraphale, who glares back. Neither of them could do much to intimidate the other at this point, he’s sure, but it’s reflex. “Firstly, it’s not going to help, and secondly, I really _don’t_ want remembered for that if this all goes south.” 

“Oh, surely it could be worse,” Aziraphale says. 

“What could be worse than the literal _Antichrist_ remembering us as liars?” Crowley demands. “Please, angel, I’d like to know!” 

“Er,” Aziraphale says, looking worried. “Well, I mean . . . surely _something_.” 

“Warlock, dear, we’re being honest with you, I want you to remember that when it comes time to crush the world beneath your heel,” Crowley says. 

“Not that a nice boy like you _would_ crush the world beneath his heel,” Aziraphale says. “Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Warlock echoes. Crowley dabs at his sticky face with the handkerchief again. “I want Mommy.” 

“She’s not here,” Crowley says. Warlock’s face screws up in frustration. 

“But I _want_ her,” he says. 

“Oh, _fine_ ,” Crowley mutters, and goes to snap his fingers. Aziraphale catches his hand. 

“You can’t miracle the boy’s mother here, someone might _notice_ something!” he hisses. “ _She_ might notice something!” 

“Well would you rather disappoint the spawn of Satan?” Crowley hisses back at him. “He could discorporate us! Painfully!” 

“I’m sure Warlock wouldn’t do anything like that,” Aziraphale says, although he doesn’t sound particularly sure. 

“I want my _mommy_!” Warlock wails, and really, if _anyone_ should be miracling the woman here— 

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Dowling says from the back door. 

Oh, thank Satan. Probably literally. 

“Warlock had a bad dream,” Crowley lies, because the Antichrist remembering them as liars who backed him up is obviously an entirely different thing than the Antichrist just remembering them as liars. 

“Oh, sweetie,” Mrs. Dowling says with a sigh. “You should be in bed at this hour.” 

“But I had a bad dream,” Warlock hiccups. 

“Please take him back to his room, Nanny,” Mrs. Dowling says, rubbing at her temples. Maybe Satan _didn’t_ send her. Or at least, didn’t send her intending to be helpful. Maybe he wants his brat growing up miserable. Seems like the kind of child-rearing tactics they’d go for in Hell, if anyone in Hell were ever doing any child-rearing. Certainly the kind of child-rearing tactics that would raise a suitable Antichrist. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Crowley says witheringly, glowering at the woman. He has _work_ to do, and she’s upsetting the delicate balance between good and evil that they’re trying to work out here. Mrs. Dowling doesn’t seem to notice his glare, and just disappears back into the house with another long-suffering sigh. 

“I’m not sure how helpful that was,” Aziraphale says under his breath. 

“Not at all, obviously,” Crowley says. “Put away the rest of the gardening tools. I’ll take care of the boy.” 

“If you’re certain,” Aziraphale says doubtfully. 

“Am I his nanny or not?” Crowley retorts testily, and takes Warlock back to his room. He’s not crying anymore, but he’s listless in Crowley’s arms. Normally he’d expect a tantrum, but Warlock seems too tired to work one up. 

Probably for the best. It’s a little early in his developmental years for him to be murdering anyone, Crowley thinks. 

He puts Warlock back to bed and sits down in the rocker to read him a story out of habit. Warlock doesn’t seem interested, though, and just buries himself in the bed and starts sniffling again. 

“And no one learned any lessons, and they all lived miserably ever after,” Crowley says. 

“I wish you really _would_ kidnap me, Nanny,” Warlock says quietly. Crowley . . . pauses, and lowers the book he’s been mostly reading out of. 

“I don’t think your infernal father would like that very much,” he says. Warlock sniffles. 

“He wouldn’t care,” he says, with all the stubbornness and conviction of a small child. 

There are certain things you can’t erase, Crowley knows. A bad upbringing is one of them. The entirety of human history is, unfortunately, not another. 

“I’m fairly certain he would,” he says, setting the book aside and moving to sit on the side of the bed next to Warlock. He’s very small for being what he is, and right now he looks like any human child. Crowley could almost forget what he was, if he hadn’t hand-delivered him to the nuns himself. “He’d envision all sorts of horrible punishments for Brother Francis and I.” 

“Why?” Warlock says. “He doesn’t even _like_ me.” 

“Your father doesn’t like anything,” Crowley says. “That doesn’t mean you’re not his.” 

“I don’t care,” Warlock says stubbornly. “You should kidnap me, and we’ll go live someplace else without them.” 

“They’d find us,” Crowley says. Although the temptation is there, he has to admit. He’s hidden things from Hell a lot longer than—what, five or six years? They might be able to get away with that. But if they _don’t_ , Warlock is going to be raised a proper Antichrist, and that’s just not a risk they can take. 

“I don’t want them to find us,” Warlock says petulantly. Crowley is tempted, again. Warlock’s powers might be enough to keep them hidden, if his and Aziraphale’s can’t do the trick. Warlock’s powers seem to be taking quite a while to come in, though, and probably can’t be relied on. The first time the boy got upset or missed his parents might sell them out to Heaven and Hell combined. 

“They would,” Crowley says. A missing Antichrist, right before the final war both their sides are chomping at the bit to get to fight? They’d be found. 

Unfortunately. 

Warlock buries himself in the blankets and starts sniffling again. Crowley rubs his back, for lack of a better idea. 

“One day you will have the power to destroy everyone who’s ever wronged you,” he reminds him. “No one on Earth will be able to stop you.” 

“I’m tired,” Warlock says. 

“Alright.” Crowley keeps rubbing his back. “Why don’t I sing you a nice lullaby, then, and you can go back to sleep? No bad dreams this time, just the wailings and lamentations of the worthless fools you’ve crushed.” 

“Okay,” Warlock says, and closes his eyes. Crowley sings him the most murderous lullaby he knows, soft and low and over and over until the boy drifts to sleep. He could’ve just put him under with a miracle, but it feels a bit like cheating. Also, that’s another thing he _really_ wouldn’t want the Antichrist remembering him for if this doesn’t work out. 

He waits until he’s sure Warlock is asleep, finishes the refrain of the lullaby, and then gets up and goes to find Aziraphale. Aziraphale is in the shed, doing a very poor job of putting away the gardening equipment. Seeing as he usually just putters around talking to Warlock about Brother Snail and Crowley’s been the one menacing the hedges into shape, it’s no surprise. 

“I don’t know if this is working,” he says. Aziraphale puts down the bag of mulch he’s moving with a huff. 

“Did something happen?” he asks. 

“No,” Crowley says. “Yes. He said he wished we really would kidnap him.” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, looking troubled. “Well—that’s good, isn’t it? That means he’s listening to us.” 

“That means he hates it here and will probably grow _up_ to hate it here,” Crowley says. It’s hard to avoid the truth of that, since he can feel all the ugly things Warlock’s been feeling. “And if he _hates_ it here . . .” 

“Then he’ll be all for ending the world,” Aziraphale realizes glumly. 

“Got it in one, angel,” Crowley says. “This unsightly blemish of a world will be gone like it never existed, and you’ll never hear Mozart again.” 

“Oh _dear_ ,” Aziraphale says, looking wretched. “Well, what are we supposed to do? We can’t miracle his parents into better people, they’ve got _free will_.” 

“Believe me, I’d be willing to try,” Crowley mutters. “You’re an _angel_ , Aziraphale, can’t you . . . I don’t know, tempt them into being nicer? Or at least _around_?” 

“Free will,” Aziraphale says again, shaking his head. “I can’t affect humans like that.” 

“I don’t see why not, it works the other way ‘round!” Crowley says in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. 

“I mean, I _could_ do it, but it’d be wicked,” Aziraphale says. “And if Heaven notices, they won’t be very happy about it.” 

“Argh,” Crowley says with a grimace. He paces the shed. Aziraphale puts another bag of mulch away. There must be _something_ they can do. Warlock’s got to have positive influences besides Aziraphale, or otherwise he’ll grow up thinking everything is terrible and Aziraphale’s just a crazy old man. 

Admittedly, Aziraphale’s approach so far has been a little crazy, from what Warlock’s relayed of it. Crowley isn’t going to judge, exactly, but they need to do _something_ so Warlock doesn’t jump to any dangerous conclusions. 

The kidnapping plan is sounding better and better, honestly. 

“These are very heavy,” Aziraphale mutters under his breath, huffing and puffing as he drags the last bag of mulch back into the shed. 

“The end of the world is inevitable because the Dowlings can’t _parent_ ,” Crowley says, as apparently the only one in this conversation with priorities. “Why are humans like this?” 

“Free will, of course,” Aziraphale says reasonably. “The same reason they ate that blasted apple to begin with.” 

“This is not my fault!” Crowley hisses. “Do not put this on me!” 

“I’m just _saying_ —” 

“Well don’t _just say_ , help me come up with something here!” Crowley says, waving his hands between them to make the point. “This is the end of the world we’re talking about, and I _like_ the world! It’s got cars! And phones! And people!” 

“I do think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say about—” 

“I am not _nice_!” 

“You don’t need to keep interrupting,” Aziraphale huffs. “ _I_ like the world the way it is too, you know. Obviously. I’m sure Warlock is just having a bad day.” 

“Warlock is having a bad _life_!” Crowley says emphatically, waving his hands again. 

“Surely it can’t be that bad,” Aziraphale says. “They _do_ love him.” 

“Not enough!” Crowley says. “And anyway, he’s demonic, he can’t _sense_ that kind of thing! All he’s got to go off is how they treat him!” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale mutters. 

“You _think_?!” 

They go back to Aziraphale’s and get drunk. They do not come up with anything helpful to do. Crowley reluctantly backburners the problem and they both show up for work in the morning miraculously hangover-free. The Dowlings are both already on their way to the apparently politically vital brunch they’re attending, and Warlock is already on his way to spending the whole day being unbearable. Crowley feels like maybe he has a hangover after all. 

Warlock throws no less than three temper tantrums before lunch. Crowley looks out the window to see Aziraphale inexpertly mauling the rose bushes and seethes with envy. Of course Warlock doesn’t want to play outside _today_. Also, he’s going to have to fix those blessed bushes later. The Dowlings have a gorgeous garden, and _not_ because of anything Aziraphale’s done to it. Specifically in _spite_ of everything Aziraphale’s done to it, in fact. 

Crowley was right to insist on being the nanny, but it is physically _hurting_ him to watch Aziraphale garden. 

Warlock has another tantrum over lunch, Aziraphale destroys the roses, and Crowley develops a migraine. He corrals Warlock with promises of mayhem and destruction and snaps the rose bushes back into presentability, then lets the brat loose on the lawn with all his most obnoxious toys and a few unnecessarily dangerous ones. Aziraphale does not appreciate it, but Crowley doesn’t appreciate what he’s been doing to the flower beds. 

It’s shaping up to be a rough day. 

Warlock seems to be in slightly better spirits after being allowed to wreak havoc on the lawn, at least, so there’s that. And if Aziraphale has to lay some new sod now, well, maybe he’ll learn something. The Dowlings miss dinner, though, after which point Warlock’s mood nosedives again. Crowley wonders what the bloody hell they’re _doing_. It was supposed to be a brunch, for Hell’s sake! Brunches are a morning thing! 

Also, he’s the blessed _nanny_ , they ought to be keeping him in the loop here. 

“They weren’t back for bedtime again?” Aziraphale asks resignedly on the terrace, miracling dirt off his hands. 

“Three guesses, and the first two don’t count,” Crowley replies sourly, adjusting his glasses. Warlock threw his teddy bear at his face when he was reading and then cried himself to sleep. There isn’t a lullaby in _Hell_ murderous enough to handle this problem. 

“Well, he’ll . . . get used to it, won’t he?” Aziraphale says. 

“That’d be _worse_ ,” Crowley reminds him. They want a child who _cares_ about things, after all. 

“Right,” Aziraphale says glumly. “Do you suppose we ought to talk to his parents?” 

“The hired help?” Crowley cocks an eyebrow at him. “You think they’d actually listen?” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says. “We haven’t tried, so . . .” 

“Mrs. Dowling barely even speaks to me,” Crowley says. “And frankly I’m not sure the ambassador could pick me out of a crowd of two.” 

“I do know what you mean, unfortunately,” Aziraphale says with a sigh, putting a hand on his cheek and furrowing his brow. “I’ll be honest, I’m really not sure what to do.” 

“If I had any idea, I’d tell you,” Crowley says. He folds his arms and looks up at the house. It looks very cold, in his opinion. Not in a good way. Maybe this _is_ the way the Antichrist is supposed to grow up. It would make sense, he supposes. A loving upbringing might give him second thoughts on the whole ending the world thing. 

“We’ll just have to keep an eye on things,” Aziraphale says. “Do our best, as it were.” 

“Your best is going to have a lot of heavy lifting to do,” Crowley says. “And if _I_ do my best while they’re treating him like this, the brat will come out unbalanced for sure.” 

“You could perhaps reel in the demonic influences a bit,” Aziraphale says. “Read him a _pleasant_ story for once, perhaps.” 

“What’s not pleasant about smiting your enemies and destroying all who oppose you?” Crowley demands. 

“I rather think the question contains the answer,” Aziraphale says dryly. “Look, we’ll just . . . work around them.” 

“He asked me to _kidnap him_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley says. 

“Well—pretend like we have,” Aziraphale says. “Pretend they’re not around.” 

“That wouldn’t require much pretending,” Crowley says. 

“Then it won’t be hard to do,” Aziraphale says. 

“So let me get this straight, you want us to parent the Antichrist under the noses of his _actual parents_ ,” Crowley says. 

“Well we’re already practically doing it,” Aziraphale says. “And I’m sure you’d make a wonderful mother.” 

“I would, _obviously_ , but that’s besides the point!” Crowley says. 

“He already loves us,” Aziraphale says. “It’s not that much of a leap.” 

“He _what_?!” Crowley says. 

“He loves us,” Aziraphale says. “I’m an angel, my dear, you _know_ I can sense that sort of thing.” 

“The Antichrist _loves us_ ,” Crowley says in disbelief, then throws his hands up in the air. “Sure! Why not! This might as well happen!” 

“I thought it was a good sign, myself,” Aziraphale says. 

“The _Antichrist_ , Aziraphale!” Crowley hisses. “How are we going to explain _that_ to our people?!” 

“I was rather hoping we wouldn’t have to,” Aziraphale says, which—fair enough, really. Still. 

“We’re going to die,” Crowley says. “We had a good run, you and I. Six thousand years, not too bad. At least we’ve got half a decade to tie up all our affairs.” 

“Half a _decade_ ,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. “I can hardly believe it.” 

“And we’ll be spending it here, trying to keep up with miracles and temptations and simultaneously out-parent the Dowlings!” Crowley throws his hands up again. “Of course! Of course we will!” 

“Well when you put it like _that_ , any plan would sound bad,” Aziraphale says, looking put-out. 

“I need to be drunk for this conversation,” Crowley says. 

“ _Really_ , my dear, we have to set an example for the boy,” Aziraphale says. Crowley gives him an incredulous look. 

“He’s _in bed_ ,” he says. 

“The last time we thought that he popped up right in the middle of a conversation about him _murdering_ us all,” Aziraphale says crossly. 

“He isn’t going to pop up, you paranoid bastard,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes behind his glasses in exasperation. “He’s well asleep, off dreaming of Hell and all its demons and the impending apocalypse.” 

“I’d hope not,” Aziraphale says worriedly. “Surely there are nicer dreams for a little boy to have.” 

“And a nice little boy might _have_ those, but ours is inhuman hellspawn and you need to manage your expectations,” Crowley says. 

“Come now, even demons must have nice dreams sometimes,” Aziraphale says. “Don’t you?” 

“Of course not!” Crowley lies. “What kind of respectable demon goes around having _nice_ dreams?” 

“I just assumed,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve had bad dreams before, so why shouldn’t a demon have nice ones?” 

“You are vastly underestimating the nightmare-inducing powers of Hell,” Crowley says. “Look, the important thing here is that I am sober, and I do not want to be. I _know_ you have a very fine vintage of something that can fix that.” 

“Well, are we talking a red or a white?” Aziraphale says, pursing his lips. 

“That’s the spirit,” Crowley says encouragingly. 

“The spirits, as it were,” Aziraphale says with a titter. Crowley decides to forgive him, in interest of drinking sooner. He checks on the sleeping Warlock one last time and then they head back to the bookshop and get through the better part of several bottles of very good dessert wine and half a cake. Mostly the cake is Aziraphale, but Crowley takes a couple bites because Aziraphale likes it when he shows an interest in things he likes and Crowley likes it when Aziraphale likes things. 

Aziraphale licks a little bit of icing off his fork. Crowley pretends to be able to handle it. 

It’s a pleasant night, at least, and somehow it becomes a habit; they take care of Warlock, they try to convince him to be as mundane as humanly possible while juggling all the curses and miracles they need to perform, and after their latest miserable failure(s) they go to the bookshop and drink, because all Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants are always closed by the time the Dowlings come home. The fourth time Aziraphale miracles them a supper to split, Crowley realizes that they _are_ in a habit, and not a habit like one of their usual ones. Yes, they do this kind of thing all the time—insomuch as “every few decades” can be “all the time”—but they don’t do it multiple times a _week_. 

He’s not complaining, but he keeps waiting for Aziraphale to. 

So far he hasn’t. 

Aziraphale pours the wine. Crowley pretends not to have noticed that this is the fourth time they’ve done this this week, and wouldn’t admit to it under all the tortures of Hell. He watches Aziraphale drink, and laugh, and they don’t talk about the end of the world. He wonders if Aziraphale feels like he does; if he wants to fit in as much time together as they possibly can before they have to worry about things going tits up and being on the opposite side actually _mattering_. 

They could run away together, he thinks, still watching Aziraphale. There’s places they could go. They wouldn’t have Earth anymore, but they’d have each other, which—really, that’s all they’ve ever had, isn’t it? Crowley doesn’t have other friends, and if Aziraphale does he hasn’t mentioned them in six thousand years. No one else is regularly plucking him out of the grips of fascists and revolutionaries and stupidity; no one else is getting _him_ holy water. They’re definitely not trying to raise the Antichrist with anyone else. 

So. They could run away together. 

Aziraphale laughs at something, Crowley’s not even sure what, and he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He wants to spend another six thousand years like this, and even then he doesn’t think he’ll be ready for the end times. Not if it means being on the opposite side from Aziraphale. 

He’s not ready for that. He’ll never be ready for that. 

“I don’t _want_ a birthday party,” Warlock says stubbornly. He’s six now; coming up fast on seven. It’s been a while, in human time, and they still haven’t solved the problem of his parents. “Parties are _stupid_.” 

“At your age, yes,” Crowley says, setting aside the book he was about to start reading to him. “Why don’t you want one, though?” 

Warlock scowls, folding his arms. If Crowley thought things were cute, Warlock’s attempt at looking angry might be one of them. 

“Mom and Dad are just gonna invite _their_ friends!” Warlock says angrily. “They _always_ just invite their friends, and then I have to hang out with their boring friends’ boring kids!” 

“One day you’ll have the power to make them all regret ever being born,” Crowley assures him. 

“It’s not _one day_ yet!” Warlock complains, which is a fair retort. 

“True,” Crowley says. “Do you want me to poison the punch?” 

“. . . maybe,” Warlock says, sneaking him a wary look. 

“Everyone at that party will regret ever touching it,” Crowley promises. He doesn’t want to murder a bunch of children, obviously, but giving them nasty stomachaches in the name of preserving human existence is probably fine. And he’ll put a double-dose in the adult punch bowl. Possibly a triple, depending on how much Warlock’s parents have upset him that day. 

“Brother Francis says poisoning people is bad,” Warlock says, though he looks mollified. 

“Don’t you listen to him,” Crowley says firmly. “You listen to me.” 

“Brother Francis says _that_ , too,” Warlock says. 

Warlock’s seventh birthday party is a resounding failure, to Warlock’s delight. Crowley considers it a job well done. 

“Happy birthday, dear,” he says to Warlock as they hide on the front porch while everyone else gets rained on, and snaps up some lightning just for the pizzazz. Warlock hugs him, which isn’t very Antichrist-y, so Crowley decides to take it as a good sign. He really hopes Hell wasn’t watching that one, though. 

Things progress. They can’t _really_ parent Warlock, obviously, but they do their best to make up for what he’s missing out on. It’s a very strange experience. Crowley gets more hugs than he’s had in the past six thousand years. Aziraphale might too, though he’d have to ask to be sure. 

“Nanny Ashtoreth says slugs and snails are pests,” Warlock says as he pokes his toy trowel into the ground Aziraphale’s inexpertly and unnecessarily digging up, because two years at this job has not been long enough for him to actually learn anything about gardening, Satan forbid. 

“Don’t you listen to her,” Aziraphale says firmly. “You listen to me.” 

“Nanny Ashtoreth says _that_ , too,” Warlock says, and Crowley has to keep himself from laughing before they notice him. Warlock always says the same things, but then again, so do he and Aziraphale. He saunters up to them lazily, hands tucked into the pockets of his skirt, and Warlock looks up and makes a surprised noise. “Nanny!” 

“Hullo, Warlock,” Crowley says. “How’s Brother Francis treating you?” 

“We’re digging!” Warlock says. 

“I see,” Crowley says, and resists the urge to snap the suffering dirt into order. “It’s almost time for dinner, though, you need to wash up.” 

“I don’t want to!” Warlock says. “I want to dig!” 

“Your infernal father will feed me to the hellhounds if I don’t make sure you eat properly,” Crowley says. “I’m sure Brother Francis will let you dig again after dinner.” 

“Can I?” Warlock says, turning an earnest look on Aziraphale. 

“So long as you eat all your vegetables,” Aziraphale says. “Gardeners and farmers go to quite a lot of effort to grow those, you know!” 

“Yes, Brother Francis,” Warlock groans, dropping his trowel and pushing himself to his feet. He tries to brush some of the dirt off, and Crowley snaps him clean without thinking about it. Warlock makes a satisfied noise, and Aziraphale shoots him a _look_. Oh, well. It’s not as if it matters if the Antichrist eventually figures out they’re not human. At least, that _he’s_ not human. It might be a bit more of an issue with Aziraphale, to be fair. 

“I hear it’s shepherd’s pie tonight,” Crowley says, and Warlock lights up. Crowley picks him up and puts him on his hip, even though he’s really getting too big for it. Warlock likes it, and he can always miracle himself a little bit stronger if he needs to. 

“I want shepherd’s pie!” Warlock says excitedly. 

“Then I have excellent news for you,” Crowley says. He takes Warlock to the dining room, and Warlock doesn’t ask where his parents are once and gobbles up his whole dinner without fuss. Crowley keeps up his end of the bargain and lets him back out onto the lawn after. All things considered, the evening goes almost effortlessly smoothly. Warlock doesn’t even throw a tantrum, much less inconveniently discorporate or ruthlessly murder anyone. He gets rather muddy, but that’s a perfectly normal thing for a human child, so Crowley doesn’t concern himself with it. 

He does snap him clean before bed, obviously, but that goes without saying. 

He tucks Warlock in, reads him the goriest fairy tale he knows, and then goes to find Aziraphale, who’s attempting to repair the damage he did digging earlier. The damage _he_ did, mind; Warlock did much less. 

“You really are terrible at this,” Crowley says, miracling the flowerbeds back into respectable condition. 

“That’s cheating,” Aziraphale says. He’s covered in dirt, and looks somewhat stressed out. Crowley’s never actually seen him so dirty before. 

“It’s not cheating if it gets the job done,” he says. Aziraphale huffs at him and stands up, shaking the dirt off his smock. 

“I assure you, it very much _is_ ,” he says. “Did Warlock go to bed alright?” 

“Yes,” Crowley says. “Didn’t even ask me to kidnap him this time, so we’re doing quite well.” 

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale says, looking relieved. Warlock doesn’t ask that very often, but he hasn’t _stopped_ asking either. Crowley doesn’t know what Aziraphale says when he asks him; for himself, it’s always another excuse about how he’ll be viciously and violently destroyed if he does. Although it’s not an excuse if it’s true, so . . . 

“Your place or mine?” Crowley asks, as if there’s any question. 

“Oh, mine, I should think,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve found the _loveliest_ black forest cake, you really _must_ try it.” 

“If you insist,” Crowley says, and they go to the bookshop and eat cake until far too late at night. It’s delicious, although Crowley, like always, only has a few bites. Watching Aziraphale eat it is delicious enough all on its own. 

So things progress. Crowley learns more murderous lullabies, Aziraphale finds more garden pests to call “Brother” and “Sister”, and Warlock continues to grow up. The plan isn’t perfect, but it seems to be progressing well enough, and everything is perfectly—

“Listen,” Mrs. Dowling says. “I don’t pretend to understand, but if you and Francis are _fraternizing_ . . .” 

_“Fraternizing?!”_ Crowley sputters. 

“It’s _fine_ , really,” Mrs. Dowling says. “As long as you don’t do anything inappropriate around Warlock, it hardly matters. I just want to be clear about things.” 

“Things?” Crowley repeats warily. Is she possessed? Should he be worried? 

“Yes,” Mrs. Dowling says. “I can’t say I see what you see in him, but I’m sure he’s very special.” 

Oh no, Crowley thinks. She’s worse than possessed. She’s _interested_. 

“It’s really not like that, Mrs. Dowling,” Crowley says. 

“It’s fine, really,” Mrs. Dowling says again. “It’s _sweet_ , actually, you two meeting here and all. And Francis is so good with the plants, I’m sure he’s a wonderful man.” 

“Sure,” Crowley lies. Not that Aziraphale isn’t wonderful, obviously, but he is definitely not wonderful with the _plants_. 

“Are you going to get married?” Mrs. Dowling says. “Not to be too forward.” 

“Er,” Crowley says, and the next thing he knows he’s looking at wedding cakes. 

This is not his fault. 

“I feel like this was your fault,” Aziraphale says. 

“Shut up and pick a cake!” Crowley hisses at him. 

“The blueberry and lemon, obviously,” Aziraphale says. “ _Really_ , though, my dear, you’re a _demon_. You couldn’t come up with a better lie than us being engaged?” 

“Not after she offered us the backyard to get married in!” Crowley says. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, just _looking_ at him. Crowley turns red. 

“I’m doing my best here, alright?!” he says. “How else was I going to explain us sneaking off together?!” 

“Well, I suppose there’s no helping it,” Aziraphale sighs. “At least there’ll be cake.” 

“Can’t complain about an excuse to dress up, really,” Crowley says. 

“You _do_ know your wedding dress can’t be black, yes?” 

“. . . yes.” 

Aziraphale writes up a registry and a guest list, though where he’s getting the guests Crowley has _no_ idea, and Crowley spends a few days going through countless bridal magazines looking for a promising dress. He doesn’t see why he _can’t_ have it in black, but apparently that’s not a thing humans do. He’s willing to start a trend, but Aziraphale is insistent and they probably shouldn’t do anything too outlandish anyway, temptation aside. 

Crowley wonders, briefly, how he could _ever_ spin this for Hell, and decides the best course of action is just never letting them know about it ever. 

“Are you and Brother Francis really getting married?” Warlock asks. Crowley looks up from his latest bridal magazine, somewhat surprised the brat cares enough to comment on it. 

“Apparently,” he says, flipping to the next page. 

“You’ll look weird in white,” Warlock says, wrinkling his nose. 

“See now, that’s what I said, but Francis thinks the humans will think I’m crazy if I wear black,” Crowley says. “But he’ll look weird in black, so I think it’s fair.” 

“Why don’t you just wear what you wanna?” Warlock asks. 

Crowley considers saying “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do” and decides that is the worst possible thing to say to someone he’s trying to subtly talk out of fulfilling his destiny of ending the world. 

“You know, you have a point,” he says, and snaps. The bridal magazine is replaced with a much more gothic version, and he goes back to paging through it with renewed interest. 

Aziraphale will look better in a white tux anyway. 

Warlock shoves his way into his lap. Crowley adjusts for his presence. 

“That one’s lacy,” Warlock says, pointing at the page. 

“Quite a lot of these are,” Crowley says. 

“Is Brother Francis gonna grow your flowers?” Warlock asks. “You get flowers when you get married, right?” 

“Usually,” Crowley confirms, then pictures Aziraphale attempting to grow anything and has to repress a laugh. “I don’t think Francis will be growing ours, though.” 

“Are you gonna, then?” Warlock asks. “You always fix the roses when they get messed up.” 

“. . . maybe,” Crowley says, once again reminded how Satan-blessed _observant_ the brat can be. Human children appear to specialize in that. It’d been a while since Crowley had spent any time with any, before this, and he’d stupidly forgotten. 

“Can I be in the wedding?” Warlock asks. 

“I suppose so,” Crowley says. In for a penny, in for a pound and all. Why not have the Antichrist for . . . what, ringbearer? Flower boy? Whatever Warlock’s interested in, he supposes. 

It occurs to him that he’s probably supposed to have a maid of honor. That might be a bit difficult to work out. 

Well, they’ll figure something out. 

Wedding planning continues. Mrs. Dowling is more interested in Crowley’s dress than she’s ever been in Warlock’s _anything_ , as far as Crowley can tell, even once she finds out it’s going to be black. He finds that irritating. They’re trying to save the _world_ here, the Dowlings could at least do their part. 

He picks particularly poisonous flowers, partially out of spite and partially to keep up demonic appearances, Aziraphale picks the menu, and the day approaches. Crowley considered a winter wedding, originally, for how dead and dreadful the lawn would be sure to look, but the certain misery of making a few dozen diplomats and politicians sit out in the hot summer sun in formalwear won out in the end. Why the Dowlings are inviting people like that to their _employees’_ wedding is beyond him, but it seems to be habit. 

“Did you find a dress yet?” Aziraphale asks one night in the bookshop, peering over Crowley’s shoulder at the bridal magazine he’s paging through between sips of very old and very good wine. 

“You’re not supposed to see it before the ceremony,” Crowley says, closing the magazine. “Bad luck, and all.” 

“I suppose we’ve got enough of _that_ already,” Aziraphale says. 

“You think?” Crowley snorts. “Warlock wants to be the flower boy. I told him yes.” 

“Somehow that seems strangely appropriate,” Aziraphale muses. “The menu and guest list are all done.” 

“I picked out flowers,” Crowley says. 

“Is there anything else we need?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Rings, I think,” Crowley says, glancing at his bare hands. Mrs. Dowling’s already asked him twice about his engagement ring, and he’d needed to come up with excuses not to be wearing it both times. “I need an engagement ring, and we both need wedding bands.” 

“Oh, right.” Aziraphale frowns to himself. “I didn’t even think of that.” 

“You’d better, we’re going to have to wear them for the next four years,” Crowley reminds him. 

“Well, let’s see what we can find,” Aziraphale says, and miracles up his own catalog as he sits down on the couch beside him. Crowley cranes his neck to see the cover. It looks terribly old-fashioned, but, well, it is Aziraphale. Of course he’d pick an old-fashioned ring. 

. . . he’s not entirely certain this magazine should still be in print, though. 

“No blood diamonds,” Aziraphale warns, and Crowley sighs. 

“Spoilsport,” he says. 

They spend the evening and the rest of the wine perusing rings, and in the morning Crowley goes to work wearing an understatedly elegant engagement ring that looks like something a particularly frugal gardener could miraculously afford. He tells everyone who asks that it’s an antique, because it certainly looks like one. Mrs. Dowling is delighted, along with all the maids and the housekeeper and literally every woman who works for the Dowlings, several of whom are screamingly jealous but do an impressive job of putting on cheerful faces. Crowley is slightly baffled by the attention, but it’s very entertaining, especially the jealousy. He preens a bit under it, because vanity _is_ a sin after all, and says a few subtly needling little things to stir up the jealous ones. 

Aziraphale brings him some slightly-tortured flowers at lunch and kisses his cheek, which is so baffling that Crowley doesn’t know what to do. The maids giggle and the cook calls them “sweet”, which Crowley _really_ doesn’t know what to do about. 

“I thought perhaps we should be acting more romantic in front of people,” Aziraphale says apologetically that night, as Crowley arranges the flowers in a vase in the back of the bookshop. He doesn’t want to take them home, his plants are terrified enough that if he pushes them any more they’ll start shedding leaves, and he doesn’t want to deal with cleaning that up. 

“No, that was a good idea,” Crowley says. “Just warn a demon next time, will you?” 

“I think we should be acting more romantic in front of people,” Aziraphale warns him, and thus begins the borderline-torment of Aziraphale coming to find him at least once a day and doing something sweet in the process. Crowley is given chocolates and more flowers and pink taffy and all sorts of little sweets and delicacies. He really isn’t that much for eating past the absolute necessity for keeping his body running, but Aziraphale is of course and is always happy to share said delicacies later. Crowley thinks he enjoys watching Aziraphale eat the gifts more than he enjoys getting them himself, which unfortunately does not help with the borderline-torment. 

He eats a lot more sugar than usual, the bookshop fills up with flowers, and still the day approaches. Aziraphale finds someone secular to do the ceremony, since a priest would be a little too odd and also might accidentally exorcise Crowley, and that would obviously be an issue. 

Also, Warlock might instinctively murder them, which would _really_ be an issue. 

“After you get married, are you gonna leave?” Warlock asks one night while Crowley is tucking him into bed. He might be getting a little old for it; Crowley’s not sure, with humans. Crowley will keep doing it as long as Warlock puts up with it, though. 

“No,” Crowley says, laying the sheets over him neatly. 

“You’re really not?” Warlock says. 

“Yes,” Crowley says as he straightens up and picks up the night’s book. 

“Oh,” Warlock says. Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Who told you I was?” he asks. 

“One of the maids said you probably would,” Warlock said. “So you and Brother Francis could go have a baby.” 

Crowley snorts. Warlock peers up at him warily. 

“Francis and I aren’t going to have a baby,” Crowley says, sitting down in the rocker beside the bed and flipping the book open. 

“Why not?” Warlock asks. 

“We don’t want one,” Crowley says. “What would we do with a baby?” 

“Take care of it,” Warlock says. 

“We already take care of you,” Crowley says. 

“The maids said you’d want a baby of your own,” Warlock says, pulling the blankets up to his chin. Crowley thinks longingly of cursing a few of them. He has enough problems without dealing with an Antichrist with _self-esteem_ issues. 

“What do they know?” he says. “They’re not us.” 

“Okay,” Warlock says, burrowing down deeper into the bed. “Read the one about the hellhound again.” 

“Of course, dear,” Crowley says, and flips to the appropriate story. He reads it out, and Warlock listens quietly until he falls asleep. 

Crowley finishes the story on principle, then puts the book back on its shelf and leaves the room. He goes to the bookshop with Aziraphale; Aziraphale brings out the wine. 

“Does Warlock really love us?” Crowley asks. 

“Oh, most definitely,” Aziraphale says. “I’m fairly certain we’re his favorites.” 

“Hm.” Crowley takes a sip of wine. He doesn’t ask “favorite _whats_?” It doesn’t really matter anyway. 

Mrs. Dowling wasn’t joking about giving them the backyard for the wedding, and seems delighted by the process of decorating and the preparations. Crowley supposes a human might think it was romantic, two people meeting later in life entirely by accident and settling down together. He’s actually known Aziraphale since they were both fairly young, so far as angels and demons go, though he supposes they did still meet through work. Trying to raise Warlock under his parents’ noses is about as settled down as they’ve gotten, though. 

And obviously there’s nothing romantic about them, of course. 

It’s the day before the ceremony, and as Crowley is preparing to go to the rehearsal and walk down the aisle in a vague haze of boredom, he realizes he is going to have to kiss Aziraphale. 

Somehow that hadn’t occurred to him before. 

He _may_ panic slightly. 

“Nanny Ashtoreth?” Warlock asks, peering up at him. “What are you doing up that tree?” 

“Nothing, Warlock,” Crowley lies, because there is not lying to the Dark Lord and there is telling a seven year-old he’s never kissed anyone before and isn’t prepared to start with his best friend. 

He’s never actually seen the _point_ in kissing anyone before, to be quite honest. Demons aren’t very desirable, and humans are mayflies, and angels are all stiffs. Aziraphale is his own category entirely, of course, but that’s . . . that’s just a whole other thing. 

And unfortunately, of course, it’s Aziraphale he’s going to be kissing. 

“Everybody’s looking for you,” Warlock says, and starts climbing the tree. Crowley wonders if he could get away with running away from this entire situation, but then he’d need another in with the Dowlings and also Aziraphale would have to deal with their pity, which would probably be annoying for him. 

Oh, and Warlock might get upset and tip a little bit closer to starting the apocalypse. Can’t forget _that_ little nugget. 

Warlock slips, and nearly falls. Crowley miraculously catches him, then pulls him up into his lap. 

“Thanks,” Warlock says. 

“Any time, dear,” Crowley says, resting his chin on his head. He really doesn’t know what to do about this. “Everybody’s looking for me, you say?” 

“Yeah,” Warlock says. “They gotta do the rehearsal.” 

“Right,” Crowley says. “Very important, the rehearsal. Wouldn’t want to get married wrong, after all.” Warlock giggles. Crowley broods. Running away still sounds like an option. 

This is all Mrs. Dowling’s fault. If she hadn’t gone jumping to conclusions, Crowley and Aziraphale would be in the bookshop right now talking about whatever they liked, not out here on the Dowlings’ lawn preparing to pretend to get married. 

Well. Actually get married, he supposes. The paperwork’s forged, of course, but so’s all the paperwork they’ve ever done outside of Heaven and Hell. 

At least it’s not an actual priest. Crowley doesn’t think he could’ve handled getting married in the eyes of God, especially not while messing with Her ineffable plan. That could _not_ have ended well. 

They _are_ getting married in the eyes of the human legal system, unfortunately, which is going to stick as long as these disguises do. So that’s . . . something. 

Aziraphale keeps saying they need to be romantic. Is he going to _keep_ being romantic? Is he going to kiss Crowley like it’s nothing, because the plan requires it? Is he going to keep bringing him little presents and checking up on him at work? 

Crowley feels a lot of ways about that, and none of them ones he wants to examine very closely. 

“Come along, Warlock,” he says finally. “Can’t keep everyone waiting, can we?” 

The wedding is full of foreign diplomats and poisonous flowers and a dubiously acquired guest list and wedding party, but the only thing Crowley’s really thinking about is kissing Aziraphale. He walks down the aisle in a mile of black lace carrying a bouquet that could kill a full-grown man, and Aziraphale waits at the end in his silly disguise and white tuxedo, smiling at him. 

Six thousand years, and the first time they kiss is because humans are stupid. 

Seems about right for their history, really. 

Afterwards, they go back to the bookshop, and they have leftover wedding cake and pink champagne for supper and toast to a well-done deception. 

Then they have a week to do whatever they want, because Mrs. Dowling insisted they take at _least_ that long for a honeymoon. Crowley mists (and threatens) his plants, and catches up on some assorted mischief and mayhem. Aziraphale, presumably, does something involving books and/or blessings. They don’t see each other the whole week, because why would they? They don’t need to. 

It’s only a week. Crowley has no idea how it feels so _long_. 

They could run away together, he thinks. If this doesn’t work. If it’s too little too late, or just too hopeless. They could run away. 

Together. 

He thinks about that a lot that week, for some reason. 

On the seventh day, they return to work wearing wedding rings, and everyone congratulates them and makes sly little asides about the honeymoon, and Aziraphale smiles sunnily at all of them, because Brother Francis is a much more friendly person than Aziraphale himself has ever been. Crowley does not, because Nanny Ashtoreth is more the smirking type. 

Warlock hugs them both. Crowley wonders if all this is working, and hugs him back. Aziraphale is somehow still less familiar with the gesture and mostly just manages to pat his head, but Warlock doesn’t seem to mind. 

“You’re not going to have a baby?” Warlock checks warily, peering up at them. Aziraphale chokes. 

“No, we’re not,” Crowley says, thinking perhaps he should’ve mentioned that one to Aziraphale as the other struggles to recover. 

“Good,” Warlock says, and hugs them again. 

Things return to normal, mostly. The Dowlings are still not very good parents, and Warlock is still a spoiled brat of an Antichrist who loves them. And Aziraphale keeps finding Crowley at least a few times a week and bringing him little presents, because that’s “normal” now too. Once, Aziraphale kisses the corner of his mouth. Crowley remembers that for a long time. The gifts are all flowers and food, nothing _lasting_ , so Crowley supposes he doesn’t mind so much. If Aziraphale was giving him jewelry, for example, he’d have to _wear_ it. 

For their one-year wedding anniversary, Aziraphale gives him a set of understated black pearls. Crowley stares blankly at the box. 

“What?” he says stupidly. 

“Seemed like the thing to do,” Aziraphale says. “Mrs. Dowling asked me three times what I was going to get you, so . . .” 

“She remembers our wedding anniversary, but not that Warlock’s allergic to strawberries?” Crowley demands. 

“Apparently,” Aziraphale says. _Humans_. 

Crowley wears the pearls. 

Crowley is _aware_ of the pearls. Their weight around his neck and in his ears, the way they hang and shift, their cool pressure when he goes to touch his collarbone. He’s never been so aware of something he was wearing before, except perhaps his first pair of glasses before he’d gotten used to them. 

Even then, he got used to them. He isn’t getting used to the pearls. 

Warlock is nine years old. He doesn’t like being tucked in at night anymore, not even with the most murderous lullaby, though he still lets Crowley read to him in the afternoons. He rolls his eyes when Aziraphale talks to him about Brother Snail and spends less and less time on the lawn and more and more time in front of the TV and computer. The end of the world is almost here. 

The end of the world _is_ here, and Crowley’s thinking about _jewelry_. 

“Are Mom and Dad coming home tonight?” Warlock asks without looking up from his handheld game. 

“Likely not,” Crowley says. Warlock sighs in aggravation and kicks over a planter, but doesn’t say anything else. Crowley snaps the planter back upright and the dirt off the carpet as they leave the room. Warlock doesn’t seem to notice the effort. 

“I don’t need you _nannying_ me all the time, you know,” he says crossly as they walk down the hall, still fixated on the game in his hands. “I’m _nine_ , not a baby.” 

“I won’t be around too much longer,” Crowley says. “Soon enough you’ll be old enough to bring about the end of the world and destroy all those who’ve wronged you, and then you won’t need your old nanny anymore.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Warlock says, rolling his eyes. 

It’s probably the best they can hope for, Crowley thinks. Warlock’s made it this long without his powers getting too destructive, or really very destructive at all, and that _has_ to be a good sign, doesn’t it? It’s certainly not a bad one, at least. 

“Try to minimize the bloodshed when it comes to other children, though,” he says, just in case, and Warlock pauses his game and gives him a strange look. 

“That’s the least mean thing I think I’ve ever heard you say,” he says. 

“Must’ve been someone else, then,” Crowley says dismissively, sweeping past him. 

They go to the dining room for lunch. Aziraphale meets Crowley in the kitchen and kisses his cheek; Crowley forgets how to function for a few minutes and nearly trips over his heels. Warlock makes a face. 

“Gross,” he says. 

“Love is a very important thing, Warlock,” Aziraphale says with angelic serenity, and Crowley walks into the counter. The cook coos; Warlock makes a gagging noise. Crowley feels more kinship with Warlock than he has perhaps ever felt with any other child, but also needs to not fall over dead right now. It’s a bit of a dichotomy. 

Warlock turns ten. The last year of human existence kicks into high gear. The hellhound will be here soon, to say nothing of the four riders. Crowley develops an anxious habit of fiddling with his pearls, which he attempts several times to stop doing but somehow always ends up doing again. Aziraphale develops an anxious habit of over-pruning the roses, which Crowley threatens him about several times but also does not stop happening. The end of the world keeps coming, ten years old and relentless as Hell and merciless as Heaven. 

Crowley really hopes they did this right. 

Crowley _really_ hopes they did this right. 

“Bit intimidating, isn’t it,” Aziraphale says, looking at the thick stack of Warlock’s eleventh birthday party invitations sitting by the front door ready to go out. 

“Bit,” Crowley agrees. 

“We’ve done our best,” Aziraphale says. “Can’t say more than that.” 

“Can’t say that it’s worked, either,” Crowley says. He’s been looking at stars lately. It’s not too late to run away together. Hell, they can call it their proper honeymoon if they like. Aziraphale is never going to kiss him again, obviously, but still. 

He’d like Aziraphale to kiss him again, he thinks, not for the first time. 

He’s fiddling with the pearls, but for once doesn’t stop himself. 

And then, of course, things get _really_ interesting, and the world ends after all. 

Or doesn’t. 

Or . . . does, a bit? 

Crowley really isn’t sure, and really isn’t going to question it. He’s _especially_ not going to question surviving Heaven and Hell’s collective vengeance. What he’s going to do, in fact, is sleep for a goddamn _decade_ and maybe get up once in the middle to make sure Aziraphale’s not on fire. 

He thinks that right up until he listens to his voicemail, and the call from Mrs. Dowling telling Nanny Ashtoreth when they’ll be back in the country. 

Crowley . . . pauses. 

They can do whatever they like now, of course, and Warlock doesn’t need any watching anymore. _Adam_ doesn’t even need any watching, and he’s the _actual_ Antichrist. 

But . . . 

Nanny Ashtoreth shows up for work bright and early the day after the Dowlings fly home, wearing her skirt and pearls and wedding ring. Warlock barely looks up from his handheld game. Crowley is already dreading his teenage years. 

It’s silly, and any respectable demon would laugh their head off if they saw him doing this. He just couldn’t forget, though, that Aziraphale had said Warlock loved them. Or that his blessed mother could never remember to stop making the cook buy blessed _strawberries_. 

It’s only another year or two anyway, likely. The Dowlings won’t need a nanny forever. 

“How was your trip?” he asks. 

“Boring,” Warlock says. “I would’ve had more fun being kidnapped.” 

“Oh, you’re still on about that?,” Crowley says, and Warlock turns red. 

“I didn’t say _that_ ,” he says in embarrassment. Crowley pats him on the shoulder. 

“Of course not, dear,” he says. “You’re nearly old enough to be kidnapping people yourself, now.” 

“Brother Francis probably wouldn’t like that,” Warlock says. 

“You don’t listen to him,” Crowley says, the old habit falling back into place easily. “You listen to me.” Warlock snorts at him, and then goes back to his game. Crowley goes out on the back terrace, and finds Aziraphale maiming the rosebushes. It’s not even a surprise. 

It _is_ unfortunate for the rose bushes, though. 

“You really should be better at that by now,” he says, and Aziraphale startles and nearly cuts his own nose off. 

“Crow—Ashtoreth!” he says. “You’re here!” 

“Of course I’m here, you clever idiot,” Crowley says, stepping up beside him. “What were you going to tell the Dowlings if I didn’t show up, eh?” 

“I would’ve thought of something,” Aziraphale says. “Probably.” 

Crowley snorts. Aziraphale is wearing the wedding ring, he notices, and sighs at him. 

“At least put on some gloves before you get thorns everywhere, for Hell’s sake,” he says crossly. “Six years doing this, you can’t remember to wear gloves when you’re handling the roses?” 

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale says, and miracles on a pair. “I suppose that would be better, wouldn’t it.” 

“Just a bit,” Crowley says, giving the unfortunate roses a resigned look. That’s _definitely_ going to take a miracle. “How long ‘til they fire us, you think?” 

“Barring a transfer? Who knows,” Aziraphale says. “Though I suppose we could tell them we were retiring, if we liked. Perhaps I’ll retire when they let you go. Warlock can’t be needing a nanny that much longer, after all.” 

“Not likely, no,” Crowley agrees, looking up to Warlock’s bedroom window. “Who knows, they might not even have bothered hiring a replacement if I’d left.” 

“Well, you’re hardly replaceable, my dear,” Aziraphale says. Crowley snorts. He twists his pearls around his fingers absently, and Aziraphale smiles. “I’m glad you like those, by the way. I don’t know if I ever said.” 

“Demons don’t like things,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale gives him an amused look. 

“Oh, don’t you?” he asks. “I’ll have to keep that in mind the next time I want the world saved.” 

“You’d better,” Crowley says, deliberately letting go of the pearls to adjust his glasses. Aziraphale smiles at him again. 

“Yes, my dear,” he says, and then leans up and presses a kiss against his cheek. Crowley goes still. Aziraphale leans back. Crowley looks to see who’s watching them, but no one is immediately obvious, even when he checks the windows. 

“What was _that_ for?” he says in bemusement. Aziraphale sighs. 

“What do you think, Ashtoreth?” he asks. “Crowley. No one’s watching us anymore.” 

“No one’s watching us anymore,” Crowley echoes. 

“It’s just us,” Aziraphale says, and puts aside the pruning shears and takes his hand. There’s a thorn stuck in his glove; somehow, Crowley doesn’t care. 

“It is,” Crowley says, looking down at Aziraphale’s hand wonderingly. 

“I just want to be clear about things,” Aziraphale says. “If that’s alright with you. No more double-talk or lies.” 

“When have I ever lied to you?” Crowley asks. 

“I’ve lied to _you_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t want to do that anymore.” 

“Oh.” Crowley looks at their hands for another moment, and then at Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale is already looking at him. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“Besides,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve gotten rather used to seeing each other all the time. I’d hate to fall out of the habit.” 

“Would you?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale smiles at him and leans in close and Crowley’s eyes drift half-shut against his better judgement and—

“Gross,” Warlock says from the doorway, making a face at them. Crowley considers dragging him all the way back to Tadfield and feeding him to Dog. 

“Love is a very important thing, Warlock,” Aziraphale says not for the first time, gently squeezing Crowley’s hand in his own, even though Warlock can’t see. Crowley feels a bit overwhelmed. Or a lot, maybe. 

Definitely a lot. 

“Whatever,” Warlock says, still making a face. “Are Mom and Dad gonna be home for dinner?” 

“I doubt it,” Crowley says, and Warlock makes a frustrated noise and blows his hair out of his eyes. 

“Figures,” he says. 

“I do hear it’s shepherd’s pie, if that helps,” Aziraphale says. Warlock looks resentful, but somewhat mollified all the same. 

“I’m gonna go climb on the roof,” he says anyway. Crowley sighs. 

“That sounds dangerous,” Aziraphale says, looking alarmed. “Is that dangerous?” 

“Obviously,” Warlock snorts. 

“Ashtoreth . . .” Aziraphale says, and Crowley sighs again. 

“No climbing on the roof, you’ll give poor Francis a heart attack,” he says. “And your parents won’t hear about it until after you’re already down, anyway.” 

Warlock scowls. Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Besides,” he says, mouth curving into a smirk. “Your old nanny has a better idea.” 

“Ashtoreth!” Aziraphale hisses, and Warlock perks up curiously. 

“Don’t be a wet blanket, angel,” Crowley says, and heads over to Warlock, slinging a conspiratory arm around his shoulders. They’ve only got a little bit longer with the boy, after all. They might as well make the most of it. “Now dear, you’re going to need some superglue and a plant mister, to start . . .” 

Several hours later, they’re in the bookshop drinking wine and eating cake, and Crowley is still laughing about the look on the Dowlings’ faces when they’d finally come home. 

“I see you won’t stop tempting humans to evil, you wily old serpent,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley tips his sunglasses back and grins at him. 

“That was mischief, at _best_ ,” he says mildly. 

“ _Malicious_ mischief,” Aziraphale says. 

“The Dowlings will recover. Eventually.” Though the carpet might not. Crowley kicks his heels up on the sofa. He hasn’t bothered to change out of his nanny outfit, so he’s still wearing the pearls and ring. Aziraphale hasn’t changed either, so he’s wearing his ring too. Crowley wonders what Aziraphale would think if he miracled away the rest of it and kept the ring on. 

Though he’s finally getting used to the pearls, he thinks, so perhaps he’ll keep them around for a bit too. 

“You still look _ridiculous_ in that disguise, you know,” he says. 

“And you still look comely in yours,” Aziraphale says. Crowley twists his pearls around his fingers and takes a sip of wine. 

“Well, of course I do,” he says with affected breeziness. Aziraphale walks over to him, and leans down. Crowley tips his head to look at him automatically, expecting some quiet aside or murmured secret. 

Aziraphale kisses him, which isn’t what he expected at _all_ , even after the terrace. Crowley nearly spills his wine. 

Aziraphale pulls back, and smiles at him. Crowley stares back, more aware of his jewelry than he’s been in six thousand years of wearing the stuff. More aware of _Aziraphale_ than he’s been in six thousand years of _him_. 

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale agrees. “More cake?” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Crowley manages, and Aziraphale goes and fixes him a little plate. He miracles away his gardening clothes and disguise on the way. 

He doesn’t miracle away the ring.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This is What Would Be Considered a Morally Grey Area](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059684) by [HashtagLEH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HashtagLEH/pseuds/HashtagLEH)




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